Rewind

by Catherine Ryan Howard

  She was, of course, hoping he’d say, Yes! Why just last week I had the same thing. Only one guest. Her name was Natalie O’Connor. She checked out on Wednesday morning and told me exactly where she was going. Would you like to know where it was? But Andrew just said that it was, and she left it at that. She didn’t want him to connect her with the phone call he’d got the evening before, asking for Natalie. Not before she had a chance to look around.

  She thanked him again and he left her to it, closing the front door of the cottage behind him.

  Audrey went exploring.

  The large window at the rear of the ground floor looked out on a non descript patch of grass that backed into a thick hedgerow. When she opened the door that led there and looked out, she saw there was a small patio area, complete with wooden picnic-style table and chairs, tinged green by moss.

  Back inside, she opened a few kitchen cupboards and found thick, mismatched plates and cups dyed in primary colours, with intricate flourishes that seemed to have been painted on by hand. Swag from The Kiln, it looked like. How very on-brand.

  The basket Andrew had left had a bar of chocolate in it; she broke off half and took it with her up the stairs, eating as she went.

  The staircase had no handrail, which made each step a little bit scarier than the one before. Andrew had mentioned families staying here. How could they possibly? A young child on these stairs? Daring to look down on the hardwood floor from the landing, Audrey wondered how no one had yet fallen to their death.

  Maybe someone had, she thought idly. And Andrew had got rid of the evidence to avoid the insurance claim and protect his business. That’s where Natalie was: under his patio after falling off this death trap of stairs. Audrey hoped not, and not just because that would mean the poor girl was dead. She didn’t think that would spin into much of a story. Take out the concealment of a body and you just have a slip and fall, after all.

  At the top, she turned into the bedroom.

  It was seriously impressive. The bed was enormous and didn’t even take up that much of the room. One whole wall of it, the one at the front, was glass. It offered a view of most of the complex and a wedge of the building site next door. In the distance off to the right a sliver of sea was visible, but you’d have to know what you were looking at or you might mistake it for sky.

  The bed was calling to her, the sight of it pushing waves of exhaustion over her, leaving a riptide pulling on her arms and legs, whispering, Have a nap. You could do with it; you barely slept a wink last night.

  She was, she realised now, utterly out of steam. There was plenty on her to-do list but nothing left in the tank with which to do. She needed a power-nap. She could have one. A short one.

  There was time.

  Audrey kicked off her shoes and got into bed.

  Sleep came quickly.

  _________

  She dreamed that she was back at the beach, but barefoot. She’d had to walk there like that; the soles of her feet were scratched and bleeding. The pebbles dug into her feet and then the water was rushing up over them, the salt making her wounds sting, and then it was swirling up around her legs, splashing on her chest, reaching for her face—

  _________

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Audrey awoke with a jolt, groggy and disorientated. It took her a moment to remember where she was and why she’d been asleep in an enormous bed, fully-clothed, in the middle of the day. It took her another one to remember that something had woken her. A noise. Three sharp raps … on the front door?

  Was there someone at the door?

  She listened but the noise didn’t come again.

  Audrey climbed out of bed and went to the window, but there was no one out there that she could see and no cars other than Dee’s. Andrew’s little red one was gone.

  The noise must have been in her dream.

  She checked her phone: she’d been asleep for nearly two hours. Shit. She should really call Joel. But she needed to pee first.

  She crossed the landing into the bathroom. It was clean and bright, with a large bath and a line of miniature bottles of smelly things lined up on its edge.

  When Audrey leaned over to inspect them, a flashbulb went off to her right.

  She straightened up.

  What the hell was that?

  Scanning the room, she couldn’t see any potential culprit.

  She repeated the move, leaning over the bath, and the flash came again.

  This time, though, she knew where it was coming from.

  There was a plastic bin on the floor under the sink with an unused bin liner folded neatly over the rim – and something else inside it. Something reflective that, when it aligned with the ceiling light and Audrey was in just the right position to see it, looked like a flash of light.

  She reached into the bin and closed her hand around the cool, hard thing she found in there, pulled it out.

  A phone. An iPhone.

  Large and slim, with no HOME button.

  Audrey thought it might be the newest model.

  Andrew must have missed it when he was cleaning out after the last guest. But why would someone leave their brand-new, very expensive phone in a bin?

  She turned it over in her hands, examining it. The device had no scuffs or scratches, but it was as dead as a doornail; pressing the POWER button did nothing.

  Hadn’t Orla said that Natalie had an iPhone X? Was this hers? Had she stayed in this cottage too?

  Knock-knock-knock.

  This time, Audrey knew for sure there definitely was someone at the front door. She took the bin liner and hastily wrapped the phone in it.

  Then she hurried downstairs to see who was there.

  It was a stranger.

  Wait, no—

  Not a stranger. Not entirely. Audrey didn’t know him but she’d seen him before. He was tall, with closely shorn dark hair. Mid-thirties. Nice eyes. Blue ones. Wearing a suit.

  It was the guard. The one who’d kicked her out of Natalie’s house yesterday.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  Going by the expression on his face, he was wondering the exact same thing about her.

  Jennifer has a headache, a pulsating throb at the base of her skull. Her eyes hurt and her muscles feel tender and sore, her stomach upset. She wonders if she’s getting the flu, even though she’s had a shot. All she wants to do is curl up in bed in a pitch-black room and sleep for days, but instead she has to get Sycamore House through the morning rush.

  She hates the mornings. Evenings: fine. Jennifer likes the drip-drip-drip of guests into reception and that, if there is such a thing as a rush hour, it’s two people at the same time. In the evenings, everyone wants the same thing she does: to end their interaction as quickly as possible. The guests want to go to their rooms so they can get on with their plans and she wants them to go there so she doesn’t have to talk to them any longer.

  But in the morning, every single warm body in the house seems to open their door and descend the stairs at the exact same time, like a herd of zombies beckoned by a signal only they can hear. Sycamore House serves breakfast from seven until eleven, but everyone wants to have it between eight and nine. What’s worse is that as soon as they’ve stuffed their faces with enough greasy pig bits, slimy eggs and barely browned toast, they all want the same thing: to check out. They line up at reception, clutching their keys in their hands, huffing and puffing, glaring at her with faces that say they are really in such an awful rush and could she please hurry up because, oh, they are so very important they just have to get going right now.

  Dickheads.

  Jennifer checks her phone for the umpteenth time: still nothing from Mike. She knows he can hardly call her right now, in the midst of all this, and she knows she’s supposed to wait, but …

  It’s so hard.

  She wonders if maybe she should send him a message. Not anything incriminating, just something everyday, mundane. Thinking of you. Something like that. Just so he�
�d know that she was thinking about him, waiting. That she would wait, no matter how long this thing took.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Jennifer looks up. There’s a man standing on the other side of the reception desk, dressed in a suit, tapping his credit card on the counter and scowling. She’s no idea how long he’s been there, but each tap is sending an echo of dull pain spreading out from her right temple to her left, like sonar.

  She forces a smile.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Checking out?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she says, ignoring his tone. ‘What’s the room number?’

  He throws the key down with a clatter.

  ‘Thirty-one,’ she says, seeing the tag. ‘One moment, please.’

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She finds his reservation on the system, but the figures blur and swim before her eyes. She bites down on her lip until the sharp pain there distracts from the dull thumping rhythm in her head.

  She asks him, ‘Did you enjoy your stay?’ even though she doesn’t give a shit whether he did or not.

  ‘It was fine.’ He exhales loudly. ‘Can we hurry this up? I have a meeting.’

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  ‘The room is pre-paid,’ she says, eyes squinting at the screen. ‘So it’s just the cost of breakfast …’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m here. Put it on—’

  But then he stops, mid-sentence, to stare at Jennifer open-mouthed.

  Probably because she just whipped the credit card right out of his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says sweetly.

  Thirty-one seems uncertain about what she’s just done. Is it a rude infraction or just an attempt to speed things up, like he requested? Whatever his conclusion, he doesn’t say any more.

  Jennifer pulls the credit card machine towards her and slides his card into it.

  Her head feels like it’s encased in wet cement. Then that the cement has dried and hardened. Then that someone or something is crushing it into dust.

  The machine beeps in protest. She’s done something wrong.

  The double doors to Jennifer’s right swing open and Linda, one of the waitresses, comes through, saying, ‘You can have a seat in here…’ to the large, dark-haired woman – room Fifteen; Jennifer checked her in last night – following behind her. The two women cross behind Thirty-one’s back and go into the lounge where there are a few armchairs, a TV and a collection of the morning papers.

  Jennifer pushes the CANCEL button on the card machine and starts the process again.

  Linda’s voice is now offering tea or coffee. The low murmur that follows is presumably the guest’s reply. Then: new voices, much louder. They’ve turned on the TV in there.

  Linda reappears, alone. She catches Jennifer’s eye and mouths, Full. When all the seats in the breakfast room are taken, standard practice is to ply guests with coffee in the lounge until one becomes available.

  Thirty-one is huffing and puffing again.

  ‘Is there some reason why this is taking so bloody long?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jennifer says. You’re an abominable prick.

  ‘… Natalie O’Connor’s husband, Michael Kerr …’

  She freezes.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting,’ Thirty-one moans. ‘For fuck’s sake. Look’ – he starts rooting in his pockets – ‘give me that back and I’ll just give you the cash ...’

  His voice fades away. Jennifer leans over the desk to look through the open door of the lounge. She can only see a narrow slice of the TV screen from this angle, but she can see enough. The news is on.

  Mike is news.

  Jennifer comes out from behind the desk and goes into the lounge.

  Mike’s face fills the screen. Underneath him, the ticker flashes BREAKING NEWS: HUSBAND OF MISSING INSTAGRAM STAR MAKES DESPERATE SOCIAL MEDIA PLEA.

  She reaches out and touches her hand to the screen.

  Mike’s eyes are red. He’s been crying.

  No, he is crying.

  About Natalie?

  He says the name then, straight into the camera: ‘Natalie.’ This footage of him is slightly pixelated and confined to a narrow band in the middle of the screen; it must have been recorded on a phone. ‘It’s okay if you don’t want to come home yet. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. But for your family’s sake, for your friends – please, just let someone know that you’re okay.’

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ Thirty-one’s voice demands from behind her. He’s followed her into the lounge. ‘Give me back my bloody card!’

  She looks down and sees that she’s carried the credit card machine in here with her. The prick’s card is still stuck inside it.

  ‘Natalie,’ Mike says in a voice choked with emotion. ‘Please. I miss you. I love you.’

  Jennifer swings her arm and hurls the machine square at the TV screen with as much force as she can muster.

  When Seanie ended the call, he heard the shower running. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments, listening to it and thinking about what DS O’Reilly had asked him to do.

  On the surface, it was a straightforward request: question the proprietor of Shanamore Cottages about a charge on a credit card that may be linked to a missing person. But it sent a cold stone of dread settling into the pit of his stomach, because the proprietor of Shanamore Cottages was Andrew bloody Gallagher.

  The two of them face-to-face again, after all these years.

  Would Andrew remember him?

  Seanie doubted it.

  Would Andrew remember Aoife?

  He’d better fucking not.

  Seanie pulled on a pair of sweats and went into the kitchen to make coffee. He had Imelda’s travel mug filled and ready for her when she appeared ten minutes later, hair wet, suit on, eyes bright.

  ‘I meant to say to you,’ she said, taking it from him. ‘I think from next week, I’m going to go up on Sunday night.’

  Seanie said nothing.

  ‘Monday is a wasted day,’ she went on. She’d opened a cabinet and was rifling in a box of cereal bars. ‘Then I spend the rest of the week racing to catch up. Trish said she doesn’t mind me staying the extra day.’

  ‘But you’d only be home two nights a week then.’

  She turned to face him and Seanie thought he could actually hear the cogs turning in her brain.

  Start an argument now or cut and run?

  ‘It’s just an idea,’ she said. ‘We can talk about it at the weekend.’ Imelda crossed the kitchen to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I better hit the road. Have a good week.’

  She didn’t ask him who’d been on the phone.

  He waited until he heard her car pull out of the drive before he moved. Like Imelda, he had two settings now, too: the Seanie who despaired at the gulf that was opening up between him and his fiancée, and Sergeant Séan Flynn who kept his mind on his work.

  Seanie quickly showered, shaved and dressed in his Garda blues. He poured another coffee and went outside, covering the top of the cup with his hand in a futile attempt to keep the icy air from cooling it on him. This time of the year the night liked to linger; the lights of the petrol station still glowed bright white in the gloom.

  He let himself into the station, flicked on the lights and cranked the heater up to full blast.

  While on the phone with O’Reilly, Seanie had scribbled notes on the only thing in the bedroom that resembled paper: the back page of a thriller he’d been half-heartedly reading for the past couple of weeks. He took the torn-out page from his pocket now, smoothed it out on the desk and copied what he’d written into a clean page in his notebook.

  When he logged on to the station’s computer, Seanie found an email from DS O’Reilly already in his inbox. He’d sent on the PULSE incident number for Natalie Kerr (O’Connor), age 31, 5'6", slim build, missing from her home address in Sandymount, Dublin 4, since the morning of 5 November. High risk due to possible mental health issues, length of
absence and no precedent; the missing person had never done anything like this before, so this behaviour was completely out of character for her. There was also a note that the woman was a public figure with a large online following, which might result in increased media interest. The photo supplied had seemingly been taken on her wedding day, a disembodied arm suggesting that the groom had been in the original but was cropped out here.

  He found the same picture had been included in the press release. Seanie printed out a copy of that, too, so he could take it with him. Ideally, though, he’d be going up to the cottages with a picture of the husband … He did a Google search for Natalie’s name and found an article about the disappearance that linked to the woman’s Instagram account. It didn’t take long to find the full version of the wedding photo there. Seanie took a screenshot and then printed that out too.

  He tucked the two loose pages, folded, into his notebook.

  By the time he was done, the clock on the wall said it was just after nine.

  _________

  Shanamore Cottages hadn’t been here in his childhood summers, but Seanie had taken a walk around the place shortly after his appointment as Shanamore’s sole member of An Garda Síochána. A few weeks later, he’d discovered Padraig Slattery’s missing ride-along mower parked askew in one of the spots outside the cottages. The culprits were a stag do of Big City Boys who Seanie found still asleep in their beds down at the Strand Hotel when he went there to return the best man’s wallet, which had been dropped at the scene of the crime. He’d taken their details and had a few words, but left it at that. There’d been no permanent damage and, by the looks of things, the hangovers would be punishment enough.

  Andrew hadn’t been there on either occasion. Seanie hadn’t seen him there, anyway.

  In fact, the first time he’d seen him was at Mass, the uncomfortable jolt of recognition distracting him to the point that Willy Murphy had had to climb over him in the pew to join the queue for Communion, muttering words under his breath that the Lord wouldn’t have been too pleased to hear.

  Seanie had told himself it couldn’t be the same guy. Not after all this time. He’d discreetly tracked him outside afterwards and watched the guy chatting with Father McCarthy, who was only too happy to supply a brief biography when Seanie asked.